Zabihullah Salim and son Saffullah Salim pray on Nov. 1, 2001, at the Masjid Omar al-Farooq Mosque in Mountlake Terrace, days after someone set the building on fire. A neighbor had stamped out the flames. Photo by Phil H. Webber/Seattle Post-Intelligencer

Zabihullah Salim and son Saffullah Salim pray on Nov. 1, 2001, at the Masjid Omar al-Farooq Mosque in Mountlake Terrace, days after someone set the building on fire. A neighbor had stamped out the flames. Photo

Gov. Gary Locke visits Idriss Mosque on Sept. 30, 2001. "You are not alone," he told the crowd. "We must stand together. There is no room for discrimination." Photo by Renee C. Byer/Seattle Post-Intelligencer.

Gov. Gary Locke visits Idriss Mosque on Sept. 30, 2001. "You are not alone," he told the crowd. "We must stand together. There is no room for discrimination." Photo by Renee C. Byer/Seattle Post-Intelligencer.

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An honor guard pays tribute to the victims of 9/11 above a crowd of thousands at Westlake Plaza on Sept 13, 2001. Photo Meryl Schenker/Seattle Post-Intelligencer

An honor guard pays tribute to the victims of 9/11 above a crowd of thousands at Westlake Plaza on Sept 13, 2001. Photo Meryl Schenker/Seattle Post-Intelligencer

Worshippers pray at Idriss Mosque in Seattle's Northgate neighborhood on Sept. 14, 2001, a day after a drunk man splashed gasoline on worshippers' cars. Photo by Paul Joseph Brown/Seattle Post-Intelligencer

Worshippers pray at Idriss Mosque in Seattle's Northgate neighborhood on Sept. 14, 2001, a day after a drunk man splashed gasoline on worshippers' cars. Photo by Paul Joseph Brown/Seattle Post-Intelligencer

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Being Muslim on 9/11 anniversary: 'Life is not better'

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Like other Americans old enough to remember, Samia El-Moslimany was horrified by the attacks on Sept. 11. But as a Muslim watching the news with her family, she felt a rising dread, too.

"We were praying, 'Please don't let this be a Muslim. Please be a natural disaster,' " El-Moslimany recalled this week.

But the prayers were not answered, and local Muslims soon became victims of paranoid rage. Strangers doused worshippers' cars with gasoline, ripped off women's hijabs, spat at Sikhs (who aren't Muslims). Terrified, El-Moslimany stopped covering her neck with her head scarf, to appear less of a target.

"I was afraid," the Burien mother and photographer said.

As the 10-year anniversary of Sept. 11. approaches, the fear that once gripped Muslims has largely dissipated, transmuting into an ever-present hum of disquiet. Molded by a decade of being watched and judged and occasionally harrassed, it infuses all parts of life, from the festive to the mundane.

There's the chronic worry of security at large Muslim gatherings, like the recent Eid prayer in the downtown convention center. There's the stress of finding a place to pray that won't freak out coworkers.

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There's arriving at the airport ridiculously early to deal with "flying while Muslim," where random checks don't feel random at all, a feeling still embedded in the minds of many Muslims, 10 years after the Twin Towers fell.

"It's more of an awareness, a kind of a prickliness always at the back of your neck," El-Moslimany, 48, said of her safety radar. When she was a kid, her parents – founders of the Islamic School of Seattle - thought nothing of stopping in a park when it was time to pray.

These days, El-Moslimany is more likely to delay a mid-day payer until she's home or somewhere safe. Every year, her family goes to a Muslim youth camp, whose location is purposely omitted from its website. Her adoption of a girl from Saudi Arabia took 8 long years, instead of the average two, a delay she blamed on institionalized profiling.

"Before 9/11, we were just average Americans," said Aziz Junejo, the longtime host of local cable TV show, "Focus on Islam."

"It would be so nice to have my life back before 9/11. It's so sad, but it's true. For your average American Muslim, life is not better after 9/11."

He described a recent incident in which he was picking up his daughters at a ferry dock in Seattle, when a man told him to "go back home."

"I said, 'I live five minutes away. That's my home,'" he recalled. "We experience that stuff all the time."

Arsalan Bukhari, the executive director of the local Council on American-Islamic Relations chapter, said hate crimes and discrimination have begun to creep up in recent years, after falling in the years after 9/11.

He attributed that to the rise in conspiracy theories and anti-Muslim rhetoric surrounding President Obama's faith (and birth place), and controversy over the the Sept. 11 memorial in New York.

Recent anti-Muslim cases include a woman attacking two Somalis at a Tukwila gas station, and a Kent company firing a Muslim man, allegedly for refusing to shave his beard, said to be religiously significant.

"We attribute (the cases) not to the events of 9/11, but in part to a rise in paranoia and fear of Muslims," Bukhari said.

Despite the challenges, many Muslims point to a silver lining. In the aftermath of Sept. 11, Christians and Jews had mounted a protective vigil outside Seattle's largest mosque in Northgate, after a drunk, angry man doused a worshipper's car with gasoline and fired a gun.

The interfaith effort led to a Habitat for Humanity collaboration and new friendships. "I had never stepped foot in a synagogue before 9/11," El-Moslimany said.

Others said the decade had forced Muslims to live in a sometimes uncomfortable spotlight, prompting many to make biggers efforts to befriend neighbors and coworkers. Many became more involved in community events. With that came the responsibility that the action of one reflects on the character of many.

"Before we used to live in the shadows," said Michaela Corning, an account manager for a human-resources research company. Corning, who also owns a clothing and jewelry story in Greenwood that caters to Muslim women, is keenly aware of her behavior in public.

"When you someone cuts you off, you can't just flip them off," she said. "Because then they'll say, 'Oh, look at that Muslim. She's so angry.'